


To Be Weakened Like Achilles

by biichan



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Pre-established character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biichan/pseuds/biichan
Summary: In which Lucius Tadius gets drunk, finds himself in a graveyard, and makes a friend.





	To Be Weakened Like Achilles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tedronai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/gifts).



> Thanks forever to my friend Megan for beta-reading this. Title comes from the Indigo Girls song [Ghost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwbeHSI-3Co).

Two nights before the man I loved was about to be married, I got blind, stinking drunk and woke up in a graveyard, entirely unsure as to how I got there. My first reaction, upon seeing the mausoleum in front of me with its sheaf of wheat above the door was quite natural, if a bit extreme: I screamed with terror and clawed at the sod and tried desperately to ignore the phantasmal shapes lurking in the shadows of the surrounding gravestones.

I ought to be used to ghosts. I’ve sensed their presence for most of my life. Sometimes I’ve heard or seen them. Once, one harrowing season while Valpetra lay siege to Lucca, I allowed one to possess me--although mayhap _allowed_ is not quite the right word for it. But at the end of the siege, I was myself again and for the first time in my life, free of spirits. They’d left my city with my twice-damned great-grandfather, every single one of them, and it took some time for their numbers to build up in Lucca once more. 

There’d been no such drain upon the spirits of Terre d’Ange. Magic, terrible magic, had been done in the City of Elua and recently too, but none of it had banished the dead.

Just the day before, I had seen the fiery outlines of a family of Tsingani in the half-finished Temple of Star-Crossed Lovers that I had toured alongside Prince Barbarus and Brigitta.

I ought to be used to ghosts and sometimes I think that I am. But waking up at the ass-end of dawn, with a mouth that tastes like dirty laundry in a buggering cemetery is enough to drive any man out of his mind temporarily, especially when one’s head feels as if an entire herd of horses has trampled over it. I screamed and I beat my fists against the ground and I did not stop until my throat was hoarse and my body was thoroughly exhausted by the struggle.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked from above me. I rolled over to see a young man, hardly more than a boy, of about roughly the same age I had been when I’d met Imriel nó Montreve--and he was mayhap the most beautiful boy I had ever had the privilege of seeing. And having been in Terre d’Ange, I do not say this lightly. Hair so blond it was almost white, like moonlight on snow, and eyes so dark they were almost black--but it was not just his striking coloration that made him beautiful. His face, ah, his _face_. These d’Angelines are a pretty people, there is no doubt of it, but this boy put them all to shame.

“I am not,” I managed to rasp out. “But give me some willow tea for my head and the rest of the day in a dark room, and I will be.”

The young man moved to give me room to stand up and once I had, I saw there was a word underneath the wheat upon the mausoleum’s mantle: MONTREVE.

Ah. No wonder my drunken wanderings had brought me here, ghosts or no ghosts. When I was a youth, afraid of my inclinations, I had read the work of the poet Anafiel de Montreve in translation--and then, later, in the original d’Angeline--and his poetry of manly love had touched my soul and soothed it alike. I was not alone in such feelings. Montreve had felt them too for his princely lover, had transformed them into works of such surpassing beauty that I nearly wept to read them.

Unfortunately, when it came to my own beloved prince, he found my sister more to his tastes.

“I should go,” I told the boy.

He did not follow me.

\--

He did not follow me, but I saw him at the wedding of Imriel and Sidonie, lingering around the periphery. He spoke to no one and the rest of the assembled guests seemed content to ignore him--but he saw me look at him. And I thought mayhap that I would attempt to talk to him after the ceremony and apologize for my brusqueness.

It was a beautiful ceremony. Imriel and Sidonie were a handsome couple and it was clear how much they loved each other. I remembered my own wedding day, both of them. The second had been better than the first, if only because Lucca had not been attacked before the ceremony could yet begin. Still, there would have been no mistaking Helena or I for doting lovers. Friends, yes, since childhood and that was certainly better than strangers or enemies, but she had buried her love and mine had never come to fruition. 

I’d managed to give her a son, at least. She’d named him Bartolomeo, after the boy she had loved, and I did not begrudge her that. He looked like me. He’d no doubt look moreso once he was grown out of his infant chubbiness. (A satyr’s face, Imriel had called it.) And I did love my son, even if I never could have more than a fond and largely sexless friendship with Helena.

I was jealous, I suppose, though if it was of Imriel or Sidonie, I could not tell you which. I knew better than to show it at the wedding. Instead, I focused on how happy I was for my friend.

And I _was_ happy for him. I even found that I liked Sidonie well enough. Reserved though she was, there was a secret wellspring of hidden humor inside of her. She made me laugh when I came up to congratulate them. We found ourselves smiling at each other.

It might have been easier, mayhap, to hate her.

I was introduced to Imriel’s foster parents, the Comtesse de Montreve and her consort, Joscelin Verreuil, who invited me to dine with them a month hence--and also, to Imriel’s cousin, Mavros Shahrizhai. Mavros and Imriel had much of the look of each other, although Mavros had a lightness of manner that Imriel, ever-serious and brooding, could not quite match, even on the date of his wedding--though I think he came closer that day than most.

He flirted with me. Mavros Shahrizhai flirted with me throughout the rest of the evening and I must own that it was gratifying. Once I got past the shock of being flirting with by a handsome man and not a single person among the wedding guests caring, I flirted back gamely, all thoughts of looking for the cemetery boy quite gone from my head, and when Mavros invited me to spend the night with him in his townhouse, I agreed with alacrity.

He was skilled, was Mavros. I suppose all d’Angelines must be, what with the position their goddess of pleasure holds in their pantheon. I was no raw virgin with men--certain brothels in Tiberium had seen to that, as well as my friend Aulus before our falling out--but Mavros knew how to do things I had only the slightest inkling could be done. I was grateful for him showing them to me.

More grateful still that he ignored my gasped “Montreve!” at my moment of crisis.

The next morning, as we ate breakfast together, he asked me how long I would be staying.

“Six weeks,” I said, already wishing it would be longer.

“Well and so,” he said, with a wicked smile. “Should you have any nights unspoken for, I encourage you to call upon me here. If I am not at home, I am sure my servants can tell you where to find me.”

\--

Two days later, I saw the young man from the cemetery again. He was in the great square of the City, sitting underneath an ancient tree. I had visited a few merchants earlier in that day, picking up gifts for my sister and parents, as well as Helena and little Bartolomeo. My manservant was already carrying my packages. I told him to bring them back to my suite at the palace, then walked toward the boy. He noticed my approach nearly right away, I think, but he did not leave.

“Hello,” I said, when I reached him finally. “I thought I might attempt to greet you when I _was not_ cursedly hungover.”

“I thought you might have been, my lord,” he said, a small and secret smile playing about his lips, “considering your proposed cure for your troubles. You seem better today.”

“I _am_ better,” I said. “It helps to be away from all those damn ghosts.”

He blinked at me. “Somehow,” he says, “I do not think you are talking figuratively. You seem a bit haunted, my lord--in a way that this city is not, despite all that went on last year.”

“Were you here when Carthage cast its spell?” I asked. “I do not know the whole story of it, but what I do know chills me.”

He was silent for a few moments before answering. “I was here to see what came of it and to break my heart upon it, but if you are asking if I was caught up in the spell myself, I must answer no, my lord.” Another slight pause and then, “Will you sit with me? If we are to talk further, it seems wrong to have you stand.”

“Why not?” I said, before folding my legs and taking my place next to him. “And call me Lucius, please,” I added. “You’ve seen me at my worst. We don’t need to stand on formality.”

“So we do not,” he agreed. “Well and so. My name is Alcuin, Lucius, and I am very pleased to meet you in the light of day.”

\--

He did not give me a surname, not that day, not in the days that followed, for I found myself meeting to talk with him quite frequently as my stay in the City of Elua persisted, spending as many afternoons in his company as I spent nights with Mavros. And talk we did, of poetry and philosophy and any passing fancy of the day. I was gratified to learn that he, too, was fond of Anafiel de Montreve’s poetry--that he even had parts of it memorized, not all the same parts I did. In particular, there was a very early work--Patroclus’ rebuke to Achilles--that he could recite from beginning to end.

“He wrote it before he ever met Rolande,” Alcuin told me wistfully. The book I had read had not mentioned that. I wondered how he knew.

But even if we had not shared a love for poetry, I would have been glad to spend time with him. Alcuin was charming and personable and he had a knack of drawing me out. His own past, he was more reluctant with, although he eventually owned up that he was from the Cammaeline Mountains originally, although he’d come to the city at the age of six and had left it only once since then, to visit the estate of the woman who had taught him and his sister.

“Older or younger?” I asked.

“Cecilie? Oh, no, you mean my sister. Younger, but not by much. Though I suppose she is older now.”

“We all are,” I said, idly. “‘Tis the effect of the passing days. Time cannot flow backward, as much as we might wish it--though, that would be an interesting thought experiment to pursue. I wish Maestro Piero were here to talk of it.”

“Your former teacher in Tiberium?” Alcuin guessed. “I would not mind talking to him, if I could--but I suspect that would be impossible.”

“He is not so old that he has retired,” I said. “If you came south with me, we could travel to Tiberium and get you registered at the University and as his student besides. I am sure he would enjoy you, Alcuin--you have a quick and ready mind and you are _curious_. I am surprised you are not studying at one of the academies here.”

“I have sat in on a few lectures,” he said wryly. “But-- I cannot, Lucius. Much as I would wish to, I cannot leave the City.”

“Is it a matter of money?” I asked, for it had not gone unnoticed by me that Alcuin wore the exact same suit of clothing to our every meeting. “I would pay your fee for you,” I offered. “And the rent at your insula. I have the purse for it these days--and I would visit. ‘Tis not so far from Lucca as the City, after all. And I would not mind seeing more of you, Alcuin. I will miss you when I am gone.”

It was true and I knew it in that second. I would miss him every bit as much as I would miss Imriel, as I would miss Mavros. The two of them had duties here in Terre d’Ange, had estates to inherit and in the case of Imriel, the throne with Sidonie. But Alcuin, so far as I knew, was no one’s heir. I could bring him home with me. And although we had not kissed, had not touched, there was something in the way he looked at me that made me think he wanted me.

I wanted him too. How could I not? But more than that, I wanted him to come to me first.

“Lucius…” he said, with a soft sigh, not looking at me. “Please believe me, I would if I could.”

“Just think upon it,” I said and I put my hand on his shoulder. He startled, then, and looked back at with me with wide eyes.

“I will,” he said solemnly. “I still do not believe I can leave here. But I will think upon it.”

\--

I did not expect to find Alcuin in the house of the Comtesse de Montreve the night I dined with her. And yet, as I came back into the house from my visit to the privy, I saw him there in the front hall, eyeing the bust of Anafiel de Montreve with a melancholy fondness.

“It looks very much like him,” Alcuin said. “I think the sculptor must have known him. But there is no way for the marble to capture the silver strands in his beautiful russet hair, nor the the topaz flecks in his grey eyes.”

“How would you know what he looked like in life?” I asked, incredulous. “You are younger than _I am_.”

Alcuin turned his head to look at me and--

“Lucius?” It was the comtesse herself, sticking her head through the door. “Who are you talking to?”

Alcuin was gone.

\--

It was not the most terrifying thing that I have ever done. Having to play at being Gallus Tadius after his spirit finally left me and lead Lucca to victory regardless was very difficult to top. But it was one of the more frightening things I had ever done, especially since it was still before dawn when I strode into the graveyard again, this time of my own volition. I did not stop until I reached the Montreve mausoleum and I started to beat my fists against the door.

“Alcuin!” I shouted. “Alcuin nó Delaunay! I know you are in there--I know who you _are_! Your sister told me everything! Why did you not _tell_ me you were a thrice-damned spook?”

“I did not want you to hate me,” Alcuin’s voice said from behind me. I spun around to face him. There were lines of guilt clearly visible in his beautiful face. “Lucius, you are the only one who has been able to see me--or touch me--for well over two decades.”

That gave me pause and I did not shout again, though I was sorely tempted to. 

“Why?” I asked instead. “ _How?_ ”

And he told me.

When Anafiel de Montreve had died at the hands of assassins, he had not died alone. His other pupil and heir had been by his side. Alcuin. Alcuin, who had loved Montreve as a teacher and as some aught more. They’d been lovers the last few months of their lives. The Comtesse had told me before I’d left her house--and Alcuin confirmed it.

“He was my world,” Alcuin said in hushed tones. “But I had no illusion that I was his. I believe he loved me in his way, Lucius. He said, once, that I was the last mouthful of sweetness at the end of his bitter cup of life. But he died with Rolande’s name on his lips and I-- I was too scared to follow at first. I did not want to interrupt their reunion. And then I could not. I was stuck here. So I watched over Ysandre, like he would have wished for me to, and Phedre and Joscelin, when they were here, and Imriel, when he came back with them. I watched and I waited and I hoped and I prayed. Carthage came and it poisoned the soul of my home and though Imriel and Sidonie lanced the boil they created, I still had to see it, I still had to see what they had done to my City and it hurt, Lucius. _I_ hurt. I still hurt to see the scars, even though they are healing. I would leave here, if I could. But I cannot. I have tried so many times.”

I took his hands in mine. “If you cannot leave,” I said. “Then I will make our time here worth our while.”

\--

I took him back to the Comtesse’s house--Phedre’s house, I should rather say, for it did not seem right to think of her by her title any longer. Imriel’s foster mother. Alcuin’s sister. They looked nothing alike, save for their beauty, but they were siblings by adoption and not by blood and no less fond for it.

I spent the rest of the night and long into the morning playing go-between for them. Alcuin of course could hear everything that Phedre or Joscelin said to him, but I was needed to convey his own half of the conversation--and convey it I did, until the efforts of the night caught up to me and I was up taken to sleep in Imriel’s old bed.

Alcuin was there when I awoke. He held out his hand to me. I took it.

\--

I spent what time I could with Alcuin in the fortnight that followed, coming back to dine once more with Phedre and Joscelin a few days before I was to leave to play translator again. In truth, I did not mind. It made all of them so happy to be able to talk to each other once more, even with myself as an intermediary, and I thought mayhap that for the first time something good, truly _good_ had come of being so haunted.

(Playing host to Gallus Tadius had not been good or bad. He’d just _been_.)

At the end of the night, Phedre pressed a small, enameled box into my hands. “Keep this upon your person whenever you can,” she told me. “Do not look inside. You do not want to know what is in there. But you will need this, Lucius. Please. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” I said, because Alcuin trusted her and so did Imriel.

\--

I went to see Imriel the day before I left. There was something I needed to tell him. Fortunately, he had time to see me privately--for I did not know how I would say what I needed to say in front of anyone else.

“I love you,” I said, with little preamble. “You know this. And I know that it is impossible. But I wanted to say before I leave that I do love you, still. And that no matter what happens, I think I will always love you, if only a little.”

Imriel was quiet for a long moment, just looking back at me with those eyes that always, always saw too much.

“I do not know if it is impossible,” he said. “Not for the reasons you think. I have _been_ with a man. I thought I was Leander Maignard at the time, but even so. I would be willing to try with you. But that is not what makes this difficult. 'Tis Lucca, Lucius, and Terre d’Ange for me.”

He was right. I knew it. More than anything, more than the darkness of his childhood, more than Sidonie or Helena, it was duty that kept us from becoming lovers. His… and mine.

“When Bartolomeo is grown,” I said, lightly. “Old enough for me to abdicate… I might come to study at the Academy you told me of. If you and your princess have managed to build it. I am told you d’Angelines all have half-a-dozen lovers of either sex. Surely there would be room for one more?”

Imriel laughed. “Surely,” he echoed. “And after Sidonie and I take the throne, mayhap we might make a progressus as a show of good faith to the Caerdiccas?”

“I would be happy to host you,” I promised. “As long as we do not find ourselves in the middle of a siege again.”

\--

I left the City of Elua before the sun was at its full height. By the time I’d reached the inn we were to stay the night at, it was nearly sunset. I gave my manservant instructions to locate food, bring it to my room, and then take the rest of the night off. I had no doubt he would find ways to entertain himself--we _were_ still in Terre d’Ange, no matter how far we were from the City.

I was washing my face with the pitcher and bowl on the nightstand, when I heard a familiar voice. “Lucius?”

I turned around and there was Alcuin, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking around in clear confusion. I felt it too.

“Alcuin, _how_ \--?”

“I do not know! But as the day has gone by, I kept feeling that mayhap there was somewhere else I could be and then I just-- _went_. And I ended up here.”

I stared at him. It didn’t make sense. And then suddenly--- it did.

I fished the enameled box that Phedre had given me from my pocket and opened it. Inside were bones. _Finger bones_. Tied together with strands of moon white hair.

“Your sister,” I said, helplessly. “Your _damned sister_.”

Alcuin laughed. “Oh Phedre,” he said. “Trust her to find the solution that no one else would think of.”

“That no one else _should_ think of,” I said. “She’s a _grave-robber_ , Alcuin.”

“Is it really robbery when it is family?”

I contemplated this for a moment as I closed my grisly box. “I think I might have to ask Maestro Piero,” I said, looking up at him. “But then, I did tell you that I would bring you to Tiberium, if I could. And to Lucca, of course, should you wish to see it.”

Alcuin took my face in his hands and kissed me soundly and sweetly. “Yes,” he said. “And all the world on our way.”

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic was _make lucius tadius smooch a ghost dot text_.
> 
> Originally, this was meant to be a five things fic in which Lucius' friendship with Alcuin's ghost was only one, much shorter section. Then it was going to be Lucius retiring to Terre d'Ange after his son is grown. Then it was going to be both, with Lucius' return as the framing device. Unfortunately, I had a hard time making it all come together.
> 
>  _Then_ I woke up in the middle of the night, realized that no, I was trying to do too much and I should just concentrate on the section which was coming easiest to me i.e. the ghost story with Alcuin and turn it into a full length story. So I spent the next two hours outlining the shape of the fic on a gdoc in my phone and the very next night I started writing and didn't really stop until it was finished.
> 
> I hope you like it. I really did enjoy writing it. And of all the proposed sections of the five things fic I didn't write, this was always my favorite, because just as Lucius was somewhat screwed over by the events of canon, so was Alcuin. I like to think of this as fix-it fic for both of them.


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